


The Next Draw

by tinycrown



Series: The Bear Helper [1]
Category: Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Action, Angst, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 04:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16674151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinycrown/pseuds/tinycrown
Summary: It starts with a missing pistol.





	1. Good Morning.

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing a mystery, any good tips would be amazing thank you!

As Henry dozed, he dreamed of many things. Of standing bears, elks lounging on the wayside of a river, lapping at the water and gazing over as the bears caught salmon in their jaws with ease. Almost like children’s play but not quite. He found himself sitting amongst the crows and red-tailed hawks. They chirped and cawed as they preyed on the little animals below. Henry almost felt bad, but such is the way of life. 

But then, in his peaceful world, he could smell strong coffee through the fresh earthy scent. It was a good smell, but this was a good dream and he did not want to leave it. The crow next to him seemed to be giving him a pouty but pointed look. Henry reacher over to pat it, but was jerked awake as someone snatched his hand. He sat right up, prepared to sock anyone in the gut for surprising him like that. But the face he stared up at was not a stranger. It was the long, tired face of Sheriff Walt Longmire, his eternal best friend holding a full thermos, his thermos, of coffee and a worn smile on his face. 

“Good morning,” Walt said, handing him the mug he just poured out of Henry’s thermos. His friend just grumbled under his breath and snatched the mug. He pulled his legs into a criss-cross to let Walt sit on the bed. He had already removed his coat and hat on the rack near the apartment door. Henry took a very long drink before he responded, enjoying the burn as caffeine sizzled in his veins and woke him up bit by bit. He clenched the mug into both of his hands before stretching out, laying both legs over Walt’s lap. The Sheriff rested his arms on Henry’s shins and rested comfortably. His head turned to Henry, who finally decided to speak. 

“Morning. And you are here why?” He questioned rudely, knowing that Walt knew he was not a morning person and was only polite when he had to be this early. Walt chuckled at his grumpiness before nodding to the book perched on his nightstand. Henry glanced at it, a sad look crossing his eyes. “Oh, yes. The book my grandmother once owned. What about it?” 

“You read it last night?” Henry nodded to the strange question, knowing he had good intentions. He reached over, plucking it off the nightstand and tossing it to Walt before taking another long drink. He watched the Sheriff tenderly flip through the faded, worn pages. His eyes skimmed over his grandmother’s notes, questions written that they cannot answer now. Henry drew his knees up and sighed, folding an arm across his stomach. The mug was growing cold, and so was he. He wanted an answer. Again, softly, he asked,

“Why are you here?” His eyes flicked over to the clock, four thirty-two a.m., and then back to Walt. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Read all the books in my house.” Henry sighed, setting the mug down, shivering as a draft came in through the poorly put in window. “I couldn’t go to Cady, not with Vic there. Tensions are strong with her.” Henry nodded once more in understanding and leaned forward. He stared up at Walt seriously before he spoke. 

“Take off your boots.” Henry only needed to say it once, and Walt obliged. The boots slipped of and clicked as they fell to the hardwood. Henry pulled Walt down next to him, laying down. He embraced his friend, rubbing his hands across his back. He soothed the angry scars ad cinched away his anxieties. Martha had told him once to take care of Walt before she was gone. She knew Henry was alone himself, now truly alone since Deena. ..

Walt relaxed against him and they fell back asleep, dreaming of the same brush of nature. It did not change, as if he had just blinked. But he was not alone this time. Walt sat beside him on the branch. 

* * *

 

Henry woke, some odd-hours later, still groggy and unable to wake up fully. The cold mug sat still amongst everything that was done settling in the apartment. Pipes creaked as condensation dripped, the whistle of wind through the crack of the unfixed window. He felt a warmness envelop him, looking up slightly as he blinked in the morning’s harsh sun. Walt’s equally tired face greet him. He gave a short smile. 

“Thanks for getting me to sleep, but Ruby called on your phone. We have a situation.”

“We?”

“Red Pony’s closed on Sundays, right?” Henry sighed, a sheepish grin spread across his face. He moved the covers off of his legs and tentatively let his feet touch the floor. It was cold, like everything else in the room. He shuffled over to the dresser and pulled out his clothes. He decided to forego a collared shirt and put on two of his long-sleeved black undershirts. It was very cold that day, after all. 


	2. Muddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walt and Henry arrive at the scene, Vic is confused. They find boot prints that lead to an empty trail.

Henry slipped into the passenger’s side of the Bronco, waiting for Walt to turn the ignition so they could check the call-in. He looked down at his phone as it buzzed, notifying him of a missed call from Ruby just a moment ago. He pressed on her name with his thumb and brought the phone up to his ear, waiting for her to pick up. The dial tone was deafening in his ear, he didn’t enjoy speaking over the cell but it was useful. He has Cady to thank for it. Walt turns the engine over and Ruby picks up as the truck gives a sputter. 

“Henry! Is Walt there?” Henry sighs and smiles, acknowledging his presence over the phone and handing it over. Walt only spoke twice before hanging up and handing the phone back over. It was warm from his friend’s calloused palms. 

It was funny, most days he and Walt were one and the same. But then there were the moments when he barely knew the man. Those days were… well, left him hurting. But he knew that later after he figured everything out and thought for a good, long while, he would come back to Henry and order a Rainier with his hat in his clumsy hands giving him the most awkward, apologetic look that he couldn’t simply say no to. He would invite him into his apartment after he had closed and tirelessly cleaned with his help and they would watch old westerns or action films until he fell asleep with his head pillowed comfortably on the sheriff’s shoulder. The daily grind always kept him exhausted at the end of the day, stress from Malachi and the fact that he’d lost his bar and soul didn’t help with that grind anyways. 

Before he knew that an hour had passed, they seemed to arrive at the scene. Vic’s truck was parked out front already and she seemed to have been waiting for a while. She started to wave them over, paused when she saw Henry and looked a bit disappointed. Henry stepped out and shivered as the wind blew against his back. He rolled his head around his shoulders to be rid of the chill and crossed his arms, guarding his chest against the wind. Vic raised her eyebrows as they approached but didn’t say anything. She turned to regard Walt as Henry stepped behind him. 

“So, this old guy that lives alone reported a stolen antique rifle. Said he heard it go off a couple miles north of here.” She showed them an old, faded photo that most likely belonged to the old man. 

“Why would the thief go up into the mountains instead of down the road to a getaway car?” Henry asked, tightening his hands as a strong gust passed through them. He stepped up to peer at the deputy and his friend. Vic nodded, taking Henry’s query and shifting back to think for a moment. 

“We should head into the mountains from his backyard. Do you think you can track him, Henry?” He nodded. “Alright, Vic. Stay here and search for anything that can be of use, maybe for any busted locks or prints on the gun rack. We’ll go search the search area for any shells.” Vic nodded and headed back up to the house. “Come on,” he handed Henry a rifle and he took it, thanking him. 

They shuffle through thick piles of leaves, brush that seemed to be scattered by a rake poorly. Henry took lead, scaling around for any smudged prints, feet or hands. He noticed a few live branches that were broken and twisted, but still hanging on. That meant that the branches were in his way and he just haphazardly twisted them to move forward. He leads Walt up a steep hillside, and up onto a clearing where the water didn’t get to flow down to the trout stream down south, so it sat here and made the dirt into earthly mud. That is when he noticed it. Two deep boot prints in the middle of the mud, but no more trail. The tree branches clinging onto dead trees and live trees alike were not broken. 

“There are boot prints here, size ten I believe? They are bigger than the shoes I wear. And there are no more smudged prints or broken branches, so I believe our trail ends here.” Henry announces, turning to face him. Walt purses his lips and nods, glancing around. There were many stumps and dead trees around, giving a shooter clear sights. So where was the gun, and more importantly, the man? 

“Why would they just stop here?” Walt mutters, confused. It was barely audible, but Henry could hear it from a mile away. Henry’s eyes narrow as he stares at the boot prints, which guide his eyes up. Only dead weight can create a print that deep. Once his eyes are on the sky, they land on the muddy boots of a man hanging from a branch tied to the mid-height of the tree resting soberly next to them. He stares, blank anxiety pressuring his chest as he blindly reaches for Walt’s sleeve. He grasps it tight and then tugs, to get his attention. The fear of being out in the open like this gives the dam a reason to burst, but he takes a deep breath and pokes his tongue at his cheek, biting it down. Stress builds faster from when he saw Malachi swaggering into his bar, and that was at one hundred and twenty-five percent of max speed for his heart, close to an attack. 

Walt glanced at him and followed his hard gaze up to the hanging man. He startled and pulled Henry behind him, grabbing his arm and holding as tight as he was on him just a moment ago. His head turned wildly, checking the perimeter of the large clearing for anything out of the ordinary. They backed away from the body to get a good look at it, to see if they could identify the cause of death. Henry noticed a bullet wound in his chest, but no blood on the ground. Could the body have been killed and then moved here? What the  _ hell _ even was this? He felt Walt turning to face him but he couldn’t stop staring. He didn’t see this every day and he sure as hell wasn’t used to it, but it was still… scary. Walt jerked him forward, snapping Henry out of his daze for the second time that day. He flinched and blinked a few times, clearing his throat and staring up at him with a fazed look. 

“You alright?” He asks, knowing the look plastered on his friend’s face wasn’t a good one. Henry nods, wetting his lips and glancing back up at the body and then back at Walt. He slung the rifle strap around his shoulder and crossed his arms. It probably wasn’t a good idea for him to hold a gun in his shaky hands right now anyways. He ducked out of his gaze and stared at his feet. Why is he acting like this right now? Stress and sleep deprivation don’t mix with tentative alcohol, he knew that! But there was no good enough reason for him to be acting this way! Do not become  _ paranoid _ Henry. Walt has had enough of that lately. 

“I will be fine,” he concurred tiredly after a minute or two. He takes in a stuttered breath and tugs at the cloth clinging to his bicep. “We should probably get him down and search for an ID.” Walt nods and squeezes his arm comfortingly. Henry is grateful for his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if it's short? I write out all my chapters on paper because I'm better at writing that way. I can't just sit on a laptop and write unless I'm in a particularly inspired mood.

**Author's Note:**

> Like?


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